


Last Resort

by Feynite, SeleneLavellan



Series: Dirthalene [19]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Arranged Marriage, F/M, didnt mean to catch Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-09-24 08:16:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17097116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feynite/pseuds/Feynite, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeleneLavellan/pseuds/SeleneLavellan





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a last resort. The last echo of light for a dead woman walking.

Or riding, technically. Since she’s taking the train and all.

Hopefully this won’t turn out to be a  _tremendous_  waste of time.

 

Selene lets out a slow breath, the long stems of the carefully arranged bouquet bending with the tightening of her hands.

It’s been…five years since she was last in Arlathan?

Ten, since she was at the Evanuris Estate in person.

And she’s actually never met the person she’s planning to drop in on.

 

Which is…potentially better. Maybe if he’s never met her, he won’t know she’s the one who sent his brother to the hospital ten years ago.

Rightfully so, but. Their family is hardly known for ‘forgive and forget’.   
They’re much more notorious for the other thing. Especially the head of the family.

Elgar'nan.

Whose fault this whole situation is, really. If you think about it. From a certain perspective.

Probably.

 

Selene groans and pulls her phone out of her sweater pocket.

 

_This is a mistake. I’m coming back._

There’s an anxiety ridden moment of silence, only the soft clacking of the train on the rails and the shuffling of other passengers in their seats to fill the air.

 

_UR not even there yet!!! at least see if hes hot first_

 

Selene snorts at Des’s response, and regrets for the hundredth time that she didn’t have the savings for two tickets into Arlathan. This whole thing would be less of a mess with her best friend at her side.

 

_If he’s not hot, can I come home?_

 

_maybe,_  Des allows before a second text comes in

_but i just googled him and he looks hot_

 

_Could be photo editing._ Selene tries.

 

_no the photo edits of him only made him look hotter_

_unless the abs are real_

_u should check if the abs are real before u leave_

_hes rich hes probably hot_

_they can pay for that shit  
_

 

_You think everyone is hot though._

 

_i dont think haleir is hot_

 

Selene wrinkles her nose while typing out  _Fair._

 

The train lets out a loud, high pitched whistle as the car shakes slightly and the whole vehicle comes to a stop.

Her stop.

 

She picks the bouquet out of her lap and slings her duffle bag over her shoulder, shoving her phone back into her pocket.

Right.

Time to go.

-

 

It’s much harder to find the Evanuris Estate than she remembers. The last time, and the times before, she had just followed her father, who knew where to go. Knew how to find his old friends home, and how to traverse the city and who had simply preferred living in the middle of nowhere with their clan.

Elrogathe always had been a traditionalist.

But it would’ve been more convenient if he had been a traditionalist who believed in maps, at least. Or writing things down. Or basic conversation. Or even just believed that she was a person grown and capable of making her own decisions about things like what to do with her life or who she wants to spend it with and who she decidedly does  _not_  want to spend it with or…

…She’s getting sidetracked.

Hopefully, at least one of Elgar’nans old offers still stands. Even one of his promises of fortune or land would be worth more than the theoretical children she might (but almost certainly  _won’t_  if she has any say in the matter) have with Haleir, if that nightmarish betrothal goes through.

 

This is the lesser of two evils, she reminds herself.

Probably.

Elgar'nans other son had been a nightmare, when she met him on her last visit. Both of them barely in their teens, but he had reeked of cigarette smoke and thought the world should grovel to him just for existing, and those were the  _kindest_  things she could remember about him.

She can hardly believe she’s placing her last hope for a decent future in the hands of his twin brother.  
Who she has never met.

Or spoken to.

Or googled.

 

She should have done  _ **way**_  more research before coming here.

 

He could be married already. Or not interested in women. Or not interested in anyone. He could be in jail, or in rehab, or-fuck, what if he’s a  _Templar_?

…He’s probably not a Templar, she decides. The Evanuris family are notorious mages. He’s almost certainly not a Templar, there’s no way. There’s very little chantry influence in Arlathan anyway, it’d be more likely he’s connected to the Magisterium and…no, that’s almost a worse train of thought, she shudders. They’re elves too, after all.

 

She finally remembers how to use the GPS on her phone in between panicking or what-ifs and could-be’s and manages to trek the rest of the way to the estate. The bouquet is beginning to droop from the journey, and Selene regrets that several of the flowers have lost at least a few petals by the time she finishes the long walk up the driveway.

 

She straightens up, holding the flowers in front of her chest before letting out a breath and ringing the doorbell.

 

There’s nothing for several minutes, and Selene begins to worry that perhaps no one is home. Maybe they’ve relocated, or are all out, and now she’s the dumb lost elf standing on their porch while someone is calling the police and she’s going to be arrested and-

The door opens.

 

There is an elven man standing on the other side. His hair is dark and his jaw is square and he looks nearly as confused by her presence as she is by his, but she clears her throat and manages to squeak out

“Er-hello. Are you Dirthamen Evanuris, by any chance?”

 

The man blinks; blue eyes and long lashes and  _why is her mouth suddenly so dry?_

“I am.”

 

“I’m Selene,” She introduces, freezing before awkwardly thrusting the flowers into his chest. “I’m here to uh, marry you.”


	2. Chapter 2

Selene.

Dirthamen knows that name.

Selene Lavellan in full, he believes. Though he has never met the owner of this name, so it takes him a moment to make the connection. His father spent much of his childhood attempting to betroth him to the daughter of one of his old friends, however. Only redoubling his efforts after the girl in question successfully beat the tar out of Falon’Din.

His brother had not been amused.

Dirthamen is not aware that any betrothal contract had actually been  _formalized,_  but his father tends to be negligent with his paperwork, so this is not too unusual. He reflexively takes hold of the bouquet that has been shoved into his chest. The flowers look somewhat wilted, but artfully arranged.

Selene stands at the threshold, awaiting his response.

“My apologies,” he says. “I was not aware that the arrangement was due at this time. The paperwork must have been misplaced.”

There is a moment of silence. Selene hesitates.

Oh. Manners, of course.

Dirthamen moves aside and gestures towards the interior of the Evanuris manor.

“Please come in,” he invites.

With a deep inhale, and then a gusty exhalation, Selene squares her shoulders and crosses the threshold.

She is an aesthetically interesting elf, Dirthamen decides, taking a moment to observe her. The light in the front foyer is very good. Her white hair is tied back in a casual ponytail, and she is tall; nearly as tall as he is. She is not wearing heels, either. Just a set of traditional Dalish footwraps, along with a leather jacket that looks as though it has seen better days, and a set of faded work pants with patches across the knees. She is long-legged and sharp-featured, and has a bandage on one of her thumbs.

There are dark circles beneath her eyes.

Dirthamen is not certain, but he believes it is a fairly long trip between the city and Elrogathe’s residence in the Lavellan Reserve.

“I can take your coat,” he offers.

Selene fidgets with the bandage on her thumb.

“I, uh, I realize I’m probably not… expected…” she says.

“A call ahead would have been customary, but the guest rooms are always sufficiently stocked,” Dirthamen assures her. She looks at him intently for a moment, before averting her gaze. He wonders if he is being awkward. Would it be appropriate to invite her to his office to discuss the pertinent details of their betrothal? Or, no, he recollects some of his sister’s lectures on etiquette.

“I believe it is customary to offer rest and refreshment after a long trip,” he says. “Let me show you to a room, and have the kitchen prepare you something. Our on-staff cook is here today.”

Selene stares at him for a moment, shaking her head before transforming the gesture into a nod. He takes it as acquiescence, and, abandoning the matter of her coat, leads her upstairs instead.

He is not certain if it is fortunate or not that he is the only person home at present. His brother is in jail again, Andruil is at her hunting lodge, and Sylaise is currently traveling on charity work with her fiance. His father is still laid up at the hospital, recovering from his most recent surgery. He informs Selene of these facts as he escorts her to the nearest available guest room. She is quiet, until he gets to the topic of his father.

“Elgar’nan’s been sick?” she asks.

“Yes,” Dirthamen confirms. “He does not like it widely known, so I cannot say more than that.”

“…Oh. Uh. I’m sorry, in that case,” Selene offers, stiltedly.

Dirthamen tilts his head in acceptance of the sentiment.

“Will this room suffice?”

Selene looks at it, and if he were to venture a guess as to her manner, he would venture to say she is ‘uncertain’. After a few minutes, however, she simply nods and murmurs some thanks. Dithering for a moment, as if she might say something more, before she seems to hesitate and stop herself instead. Her gaze lands on the flowers, and then on his face.

Dirthamen supposes his lack of reciprocal gesture is awkward.

“Since you were not expected, I do not have a bouquet prepared,” he says. “I will remedy the situation. Please feel free to recuperate from your trip while I attend to some matters. The in-house phone line can connect you to the kitchen. I’ll inform them to expect to deliver service to your room, so whenever you like, simply call down and request something. The kitchen is line ‘2’.”

“…Uh,” Selene says.

Dirthamen waits for further response.

“…Thanks,” she finally murmurs, and steps uncertainly into the guest room. It is one of the more spacious ones, typically used by June during his visits. Dirthamen inclines his head, and then carefully shuts the doors behind her, before he turns and heads down the corridor, and up another flight of stairs. To his at-home office. Most of his father’s paperwork is also there, relocated after his first collapse.

As promised, Dirthamen informs the kitchens that there is a guest. It is fortunate that the staff is working today, they only really come in twice a week to prepare meals when the manor is so sparsely occupied. Dirthamen primarily subsides on reheated offerings, which suits him, but now there is a guest to consider. He informs the housekeeper, who is better suited to handling such matters as well, and then sets about locating and sorting through some of Elgar’nan’s old files.

It takes him the better part of an hour to locate the betrothal contracts, and then to sort through them to find the pertinent offers to Elrogathe Lavellan. His father attempted many contracts, for each of his children; and received more than a few offers, in turn. Mostly for Falon’Din and Andruil. Dirthamen sifts through until he finds all of the records with his own name on them.

The latest seems to have been made on his thirteenth birthday. Unfortunately, he cannot find Elrogathe’s reply - in point of fact he cannot find  _any_  of Elrogathe’s replies. Knowing his father, he likely stored them in another office or possibly a desk that he lit of fire in a fit of pique at some point. There are many record gaps thanks to his uncomplimentary habits towards physical paperwork and spontaneous combustion.

However, since there are no further offers, Dirthamen’s most reasonable assumption is that this is the one which was accepted. He will have to verify with Selene, and firm up the contract and agreements for the lawyers, as well as assess any contracts she brought with her. To begin with, Dirthamen decides to compose a draft based on the most up-to-date offer, for re-signing. He keeps the original with his father’s signature as well, of course - a copy would have been sent to Elrogathe.

The dowry is generous, but reasonable for this sort of thing. His family owns a considerable parcel of farmland right next to the Lavellan Reserve, that would be bequeathed to Selene, along with one hundred thousand dollars in cash payment to Elrogathe, and two hundred thousand that would be set aside into a private fund for Selene, contingent upon the marriage lasting a minimum of four years. There is also a childbirth contract, though after a moment, Dirthamen opts not to include it in his redraft. His father habitually incorporates those into marriage contracts, but they are considered archaic and also technically illegal now.

He makes several calls to his lawyers, who seem strangely perturbed by the matter, and by the time he has finished the redraft to his satisfaction, another hour has passed. A call down to the kitchens reveals that Selene has yet to request food. Dirthamen supposes she is still resting.

He decides to attend to a few other work matters, before checking in after another hour has passed.

By the time it is four in the afternoon, however, Selene still has not contacted the kitchens. Dirthamen wonders if there is something wrong with his conduct, so he gathers up the contracts, and makes his way to the guest room.

Dirthamen knocks on the door.

There is a long pause. But Selene does answer, after a moment. She looks at him, and smiles.

“Hi,” she says. “Hi, hello, uh, Dirthamen. You know, it’s occurred to me that this was probably,  _definitely_  a bad idea… and, um…”

Dirthamen presents her with the re-drafted contract.

“…What’s this?” she asks.

“My apologies,” he says. “I could not locate your father’s reply to the most recent offer which my own made, in terms of betrothal contracts, so I drafted a proposal based on that offer. It’s only a preliminary step, however, and if you have paperwork which contradicts these terms, I will be pleased to renegotiate.”

Selene blinks at him.

Dirthamen waits, holding the contract. After a moment, Selene looks down at the paper. One of her hands comes up, as if by habit, and takes hold of it. She withdraws back into the guest room. Given that she makes no move to shut the door between them, Dirthamen takes it as an invitation, and heads inside as well.

Selene has left a bag slumped next to one of the sitting room chairs, and opened the doors to the bedroom. The guest suite has its own bathroom as well, of course, and tall windows that overlook the back garden of the estate. Selene tightens her ponytail and worries her teeth over her bottom lip as she reads the contract.

Her eyes seem to grow larger as she goes.

After a moment, she stops, and settles a finger over one portion of it.

“What does this mean?” she asks him. “This ‘four year’ thing, with the two grand?”

“It means that a fund of two-hundred thousand dollars will be set aside for you, but will not be accessible until we have been married for four years,” Dirthamen says.

“What…  _why?”_  Selene asks him.

He considers.

“I am not well-versed in the particulars of these contracts,” he admits. “But likely it is an offer of insurance, that so long as the marriage is viable, you will have independent funds? And the possibility of divorcing in confidence after a sufficient ‘trial period’ has passed.”

“Trial period?” she murmurs. “Four years is a trial period?”

“Our ancestors likely felt so,” Dirthamen opines. “And our parents are traditionalists, I believe.”

Frowning, Selene looks back down at the contract.

Then she looks at him.

Then at the contract again.

Then at him again.

“I’m sorry, but… do you  _want_  to marry me?” she asks him. “We kind of just met. Didn’t we?”

“I believe so,” he confirms. “Do you have any paperwork that would contradict these terms?”

Selene glances at her bag, and then skims over the contract in her hands.

“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘P’. “These terms are definitely better. Sufficient. I mean, they’re good, no contradictions here.” Once again, her gaze alights onto him. It lingers on his face, and then tracks down his chest. Dirthamen gives her a similar inspection. He had never really considered marriage before. There hadn’t seemed to be much point. Either his father would successfully arrange something for him, or it would likely never happen. The odds of Dirthamen wooing a partner for himself were always very low, despite Sylaise’s insistence that he would do ‘just fine’ if he ‘put himself out there’.

He has never been good at ‘putting himself out there’.

However, he does not think there is anything objectionable about Selene.

After a moment, she puts the contract onto the sitting room table, and settles a hand on top of it. Then she lets out a deep breath.

“Okay, cards on the table,” she says. “I want this contract to go through because if it doesn’t, I’m  _probably_  going to end up marrying someone else. Who I do not want to marry. I know we haven’t met, but, I’m going to go out on a limb here and hope you’re a better option than him.”

Dirthamen blinks.

“Is he very terrible?” he wonders.

Selene chuckles, but he does not think she is amused.

“Yeah,” she confirms. “He’s very terrible. So I know why I’m here. But why are  _you_  down for this?”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Selene gestures towards himself and the room around them.

“You’re a rich, beautiful man who doesn’t seem to be actively possessed,” she says. He suppresses a flinch on that last point. “Why would you want to marry a stranger who just showed up on your doorstep?”

Dirthamen considers his answer carefully.

“…I am not socially adept,” he explains.

A long moment of silence follows his confession.

Selene narrows her eyes.

“Are you a serial killer or rapist?” she asks him.

“No,” he says. That does not strike him as an unreasonable question. He wishes more people would ask his brother that, before going to motels with him. Though possibly, Falon’Din would not answer honestly.

Selene stares at him a moment longer.

Then she reaches into her coat pocket, and produces a black ballpoint pen.

“Where do I sign…?”


End file.
